The Making of Detective William Murdoch
by RuthieGreen
Summary: April 1890. An 'origins' story of William's first week as "Acting Detective," at Station House No. 4 hired (on probation) by Inspector Brackenreid (who was himself newly promoted). How was that first encounter between those two formidable men? What was that first day like? That first case? And what important signature elements of our beloved characters come out of that?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

 **Saturday Morning April 12** **th** **1890**

"Oh, Thomas! Be careful with those crumbs on your new neck scarf!" Margaret Brackenreid cautioned her husband. "And not on the floor either. Honestly!" Her affection for him softened the tone of her voice as she drew his attention to their impressionable sons sitting at the breakfast table. She was rewarded by his smile.

"Your mother is right, I must be an example for you at home and one for my men at work. Character—that is what makes a Brackenreid! John, I want you to look after your little brother for me today. Can you do that, son?" He received a serious nod from his tow-headed eldest boy. "Now off with you both whilst I speak with your mother!" John and Bobbie placed their napkins by their plates and took off up the narrow stairs in a rush.

"I will be taking them to the park this morning while the weather is fair. Are you coming home at mid-day for your dinner?" Margaret asked, gazing with pleasure at how smart her husband looked in his new grey morning suit which he picked up from the tailor just yesterday at an impressive cost. A darker one was on order. _Worth every penny_ , she thought. The cut of his waistcoat emphasized his impressively broad chest in a way she found supremely attractive and she believed the colour brought out the bright blue of his eyes. She had been the one to encourage the alteration in his wardrobe, more fitting to his new high- profile position.

"No, I don't think so. I am interviewing a potential replacement detective this morning and I want to keep tabs on him."

"You are not promoting from within? I thought that was your intention."

Thomas grunted. He hadn't really shared all the gritty details of his promotion with Margaret but thought he could say a few things to include her. "The Chief Constable wants me to clean out the embarrassing mess my predecessor, Inspector Cassidy, and Detective Lamb left behind and restore the reputation of Station No. 4. I was told not to promote from the squad because of all the hard feelings and people taking sides, so they are sending someone from the outside who is rising fast through the ranks."

Margaret patted his hand with pride. "You went from constable to Inspector in only ten years, Thomas-no one will top that, I'll wager!"

"Well—well see," he said, and chuckled. "Bringing in a new man from another station house-I suppose that way all the resentments will be focused on him, poor bugger, and not on each other. I hope this Murdoch fellow is someone I can count on. I may even give him a try at Acting Detective." He rose to get his jacket in preparation to leave for work. Thomas was already wearing his new responsibilities quite comfortably, he believed, but selection of his new detective was the first important administrative decision he would make as Inspector. He was charged with restoring order and solving cases—and that was exactly what he was going to do come Hell or high water! He was distracted by his musings and missed the last thing his wife said. "Come again?" he asked.

"I said, is that the same Constable Murdoch who got his name mentioned in the _Gazette_ last month about solving that awful assault case?" Margaret repeated.

"That so-called newspaper? I wish you would not read that troublesome rag, woman. Getting mentioned in the newspaper better not become a habit of his…I need someone who knows his place, keeps his nose clean, works hard and will not ruffle any feathers. I have ambitions, Margaret. The last Chief Constable came out of Station No. 4 and one before that. Why not Thomas C. Brackenreid?"

Margaret puffed out her chest and grinned. "Indeed." She pinned his St. George's crest on his lapel and helped him with his overcoat, standing back to admire him. "You look splendid Thomas, a perfect gentleman!" She handed him the elegant walking stick she bought him as a present to mark his promotion. All that was left to add was the hat.

 _Better plant that seed now,_ she thought, _while he is in a good mood._ Margaret Brackenreid had her own ambitions.

"So, does this mean we can start looking to buy a home to raise our boys in? There is a lovely brick house with a sun porch for sale just three blocks over off Jarvis—I went by it on my walk yesterday. It will be the perfect expression of your new station in life." She beamed her most winning smile at her husband while handing him his brand new shiny silk top hat made with the deepest ebony hatter's plush. She went on tip-toes to give him a kiss on his cheek and watched as he sat the hat on his head, giving him a nod of approval. He kissed her back just as a shout emanated from the second floor accompanied by a boyish shriek. "Have a good day, Thomas. I will have your favorite Saturday supper waiting for you when you get home." With that, Margaret vanished rapidly up the stairs with a swish of skirts.

Thomas was left standing by the door taking in the sight of himself in his new outfit—looking just like any other member of the gentry-a banker, solicitor or businessman. Shaking his head he removed the top hat. "Too much," he said to his reflection. "We'll save this for the theatre or the opera." He grabbed his bowler hat instead and placed it on his head, then pulled the brim down at a jaunty angle and grinned into the hall mirror. Raising his cane to his shoulder, he opened his front door, took in a huge breath of fresh spring air, and went out of the house with a firm step.

 **X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X**

Constable William Murdoch leaned his bicycle against Station House No. 4's stable wall and made sure his boots were still polished and uniform trousers were dirt-free from his hurried ride across town. He slung his messenger-case over a shoulder and proceeded into the Station House's front door, down into the small lobby, happy to see he was early for his appointment and that there was a friendly face behind the booking desk. "Constable Hodge? Good morning," he greeted the older man. "I was sent over to report to your new inspector. Do you know what this is about?"

Hodge put a finger to the side of his nose and smiled back. "Look sharp, William. He'll be with you in a minute," gesturing to a glass-enclosed office.

William restrained his curiosity about the disorder all around him—ladders, boxes, and furniture shoved willy-nilly so the walls could receive new paint, the smell from which was overpowering and stung his eyes. Another workman was noisily scraping lettering off one of the glass doors. Everyone in the constabulary knew that things were chaotic with this station house but William thought that was just about the personnel. He did not realize it extended to the physical condition of the building as well, especially as it was only two years old. _No wonder my fellow officers look askance at the place._

A choleric-faced, ginger-haired man poked his head through the doorway of the glassed-in office and yelled. "Hodge! When Murdoch arrives, send him in!"

"He's right here, Inspector Brackenreid!" Constable Hodge answered and shooed William towards the door. "Good luck to you," he muttered kindly.

William adjusted his helmet slightly and entered the room to arrive at attention in front of a large desk, his arms pinned by his sides with his thumbs exactly aligned with the outside seams on his trousers. "Sir!" was all he said, with eyes straight ahead.

This gave Thomas an opportunity to inspect the new arrival. The constable across from his desk was free of any facial hair, quite fit and trim—no tell-tale snugness about the waist. His deep blue uniform was in good order, his hands were clean, and his brass and shoes had an admirable shine on them. He was surprised at how young Constable Murdoch appeared—he was not even eight years his junior but appeared much younger. _Must be the modern barbering,_ he observed. He already approved of Murdoch's upright posture and deference to authority. _So far so good._

"At ease, constable. I am Inspector Thomas Brackenreid. I suppose you heard we are reorganizing here." He paused, and when Murdoch did not answer, he motioned to him to speak.

"Yes, sir. You solved the 'Iyotte' case and got your promotion last month. May I ask why I am here? I reported to work this morning and was told to come over straight away." William kept his eyes front and center but took his helmet off and tucked it under his arm, trusting his hair remained fixed in place.

"I wanted to meet you, Murdoch. Five years as a constable, currently at Station House No. 1. Your record is good. I see you completed secondary school, so you can read and write. Any military experience?" Thomas always preferred a man with a background similar to his own.

"No sir."

"Oh, well. No one's perfect. It says here you are an expert in that Bertillon method the Chief Constable is so fond of." Thomas personally thought it was all poppy-cock but having someone on the squad to satisfy the Chief Constable was always a plus.

"Yes," William relaxed a fraction. He was starting to get hopeful his new Inspector was interested in modern police work and was going to ask for suggestions. "I have taken it upon myself to be acquainted with new developments in policing as they become available. Iam also familiar with his other forensic techniques, and those of James Marsh used in the Bodle case, physical evidence used in the John Toms case in Warwick, the use of photographs such as they are using in San Francisco. I even heard the American are experimenting with fingermarks…"

Thomas waved him quiet. "Yes, well, that is all well and good, but more importantly I need a straight arrow. I am a military man myself, like our first Chief, William Stratton Prince. Order. Duty. Code of conduct. Our job is to regulate the unruly behavior of the masses and enforce the moral and legal codes of the city. I will allow no corruption of any kind here-we may regulate the drunks and the brothels but we do not partake on the job, understood?"

"Sir?"

"I need every man's full attention. Do you smoke? Drink? Are you married or have a sweetheart?" Thomas was happy to get a head shake for each question. "Good order and discipline are paramount…"

Right at that moment a stupendous crash came from the central bull-pen as a cascade of boxes fell when a workman bumped into them. "Bleedin' idiot!" Thomas yanked his door open to holler at them in a Yorkshire-inflected bawl to be a "Damn lot more careful."

William winced at the profanity and tried to hide his reaction from the inspector. William knew _Detective_ Brackenreid had a reputation for being no-nonsense, blunt and heavy handed, as well as honest and capable. Brackenreid was also celebrated for his gregariousness as well as a salty tongue, which was not as yet curbed by promotion to Inspector. _I am the son of a sailor, after all, so it's not like I am unfamiliar with that kind of language._ Between his father's mouth and two winters in a French lumber camp, William could swear for a full two minutes in English _or_ French without repeating himself, but found the habit to be vulgar as well as sinful.

"I also uphold tradition." Thomas continued, trying to gauge what was going on behind Murdoch's rigid face. "The Toronto Constabulary was the first municipal police service in all of North America, did you know? I expect personal integrity, loyalty to the law and the constabulary and obeying orders. Do you have a problem with any of that?"

"No, sir." William had an inkling of what this was about and his heart sank. Being brought over here as a replacement constable was not what he'd hoped for. He was well aware Detective Wyatt at Station House No. 1 carried a grudge against him and knew that being banished to a new station house would feel like a come-down in the world, especially since he'd applied for an opening as detective and been passed over once already.

Thomas closed the folder on his desk and rose to meet Murdoch eye-to-eye, and since they were of a similar height it was natural to do so. In his career he never liked looking up to another man and never liked looking down, preferring to meet a man on even terms, differentiated only by rank. "Well, it looks like it took you a while to get your bearings but your record is outstanding other than it seems you got your detective's nose out of joint by getting ahead of him on investigations." In fact, Thomas thought Ambrose Wyatt of Station House No. 1 was a solid detective if bit of an uninspired block-head at times. "No man likes to be shown up." He glared pointedly at Murdoch and was gratified the man's face registered the complaint. "But you did use initiative, and that's how it is done."

William swallowed his feeling of humiliation, thinking he must be mistaken in detecting mild approval from his superior. Then the Inspector came right up in his face, blue eyes boring into his own.

The Inspector's question surprised him.

"What kind of copper are you Murdoch? Enjoying the position as a civil servant are you to lord it over others? Or biding your time until something better comes along?"

"No sir!" William's answer fairly flew out of him. "I believe in the law. I like the challenge of a case, Inspector, of finding out the answer from where the evidence leads." He unconsciously snapped back to attention.

Thomas was pleased. _Finally! A spontaneous answer._ "I cannot abide a shirker, Murdoch, no half measures."

William thought that dedication (some would say obsessiveness or stubbornness) was a side of his personality that was aptly suited to police work. "No sir. I am used to following it to the end, no matter where, no matter how long it takes. That is how we get to the truth." Over time William managed to say that without feeling a twinge of remorse….

Thomas crossed his arms over his chest in silent agreement. Just this morning he talked about character with Margaret and his sons at the breakfast table – Murdoch appeared to have the sort of character he appreciated. That made the decision easier. "So, Murdoch, I think we'll take you on here. I can't say it will be permanent mind you and there is no pay raise at all—so don't ask…" He was interrupted by Constable Hodge knocking loudly at the door. "Come in if you have to. What is it?"

"Inspector, we have a call about a body at the Toronto Club. When the help came in to clean and set up for the day, they found the night-porter, a Mr. Ross Abbott, dead, with signs of a robbery." Hodge handed Inspector Brackenreid his notes and gave a surreptitious glance towards Murdoch who was scowling.

"Oh, God help us, just what I need!" Thomas' thoughts flew to the myriad implications of a case involving the crème de la crème of Toronto. "The Toronto Cub of all ridiculous places. I suppose it is another one of those petty robberies that got out of hand. That's not just a men's club, that's a closed society with more secrets than the Masons."

In the past, Thomas would have leapt to take a case like this, but his new position as Inspector demanded a different approach. It took all he had to be able to let go of it and step back to take on a more administrative role. He exhaled and ran his hands through his hair before checking his frustration. Did he trust Murdoch, a brand new man, with such a potentially delicate, politically sensitive case? Thomas looked into the level brown gaze of the man before him and thought: _There will never be a better test. It may_ _ **be**_ _best to test him now, because if it fails he can get the brunt of it and I'll know whether or not my judgment was right about him._

"Well, Murdoch, I was going start you on Monday but I guess you'd better get going now, there's nothing for it." Thomas handed the notes to Murdoch who just stood there like a post. In frustration he raised his voice. "Well? Do you want to be my new detective, _acting_ detective that is, or not?"

"Sir?" The pages hung limply in William's fingers and he had to blink a few times to get his head around what Inspector Brackenreid offered. _Did he say_ _Acting Detective?_


	2. Chapter 2

**X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X**

 **Chapter Two**

 _What just happened?_ William could not believe his ears. When his mind finally got unstuck from the shock and began to race, he made his suddenly dry tongue answer, "Yes, yes sir!"

"You are on probation with me—so be prepared to start as you plan to continue. Take Constable Hodge here with you," Inspector Brackenreid ordered, trusting Hodge to look out after Stations House No. 4's interest. "Constable Blake is apparently on scene. And I'll make sure the morgue wagon and the coroner, I think it is Dr. Johnson today, are on the way."

His new boss reached into a desk drawer and retrieved an old, battered detective's badge and placed it in William's left hand. "I will get you a shiny new one when you earn it. I expect a proper job, Murdoch, and you are to proceed very carefully with this investigation. The Toronto Club is the elite of the city and they don't like their toes stepped on…"

"Yes sir, I understand." He hesitated, then reached out with his right hand while closing his other over the cold, uneven edges of the treasured detective's shield. "Thank you sir. I will show you that you can count on me." Inspector Brackenreid grasped his hand with a firm shake, sealing the deal.

He and Hodge moved rapidly to the stables, and William was about to get on his 'Safety' wheel when his companion stopped him. "What is that?" Hodge pointed to the bicycle and then shrugged his shoulders—there was only one 'bike' to be had. "Perhaps we need to take the carriage?"

Embarrassed, William climbed off, laughing nervously. "Sorry…old habit."

Once on their way west from Wilton Street, Hodge offered congratulations. "I think you'll get on well here, William. Show 'em what you're made of. Brackenreid's a good man and the lads at Station 4 will get themselves sorted out soon enough or our new inspector will bust their heads over it." Hodge smiled broadly at the thought. "What are your orders when we get there, sir?"

"Thank you. And it's still William, at least when it's just us." Sergeant Seymour and Constable Hodge were the first men of the constabulary who offered friendship when William joined the force, something for which he was endlessly grateful. While Seymour was a peer, Hodge was more like a kindly uncle, wise in the ways of Toronto policing. "When we get there, I want to see the whole scene, view the body, gather evidence, secure witness testimony…" William stopped himself when Hodge just smiled even wider. "Of course, you know this. I need your help getting to know the men. Inspector Brackenreid says there have been other break-ins at private clubs in your precinct. Is this the first assault or death?"

"As far as I know. Mostly petty thefts, more a nuisance than anything else." Hodge filled him in with what he knew and William used the trip to organize his thoughts and questions.

The Toronto Club's brand new brick and stone Renaissance Revival building rose impressively at the intersection of Wellington and York. William noted the street level windows leading to the cellar and the stone-arched main entryway. William had the driver pull up at the recessed double doors facing Wellington and climbed down. He gave Hodge a nod and the two of them rang the bell and waited, while examining the faces carved into each of the entrance's twin wooden surfaces-doors which remained stubbornly closed.

From behind them came a voice. "Around back. Hodge, who is this?" William spied a young constable whom he assumed was Blake.

Hodge answered. "Acting Detective William Murdoch, meet Constable Harold Blake. Murdoch's our new detective come over today from Station House No. 1 just this morning. Lead on." Having made introductions, the three officers went around to a side entrance where they were admitted by a tall, dour looking man in butler's livery.

"And whom are you supposed to be?" the servant asked in disapproving tones, looking William up and down.

"Sir. This is Mr. Wilson, the club's butler, who said he found the deceased when he came in to work this morning, then called the station house." Blake said quickly to divert from criticism of a fellow officer. "Mr. Wilson, this is Detective Murdoch. He will be conducting the investigation."

"You look remarkably like a constable," Mr. Wilson remarked.

William did not wish to appear weak by defending himself, nor correct his title to 'acting detective' at the moment. "Please show me the body," William asked directly, trying not to shrivel under the butler's hawkish gaze. At that moment he wished he'd pinned the new detective shield on his uniform, instead he took his helmet off as gesture towards looking less constable-like.

Mr. Wilson deigned to offer no further words, merely led the officers up a set of stairs to a long hallway, through a pantry and then a well-appointed kitchen, then finally down a second short corridor into a large central hall. A dead man was laying awkwardly face-up on the deep maroon plush carpet, spoiling the oh-so-carefully muted display of power, wealth and good taste that was the whole purpose of such a building.

Upon seeing the corpse, William automatically made his sign of the cross, causing the butler to erupt in alarm. "What do you think you are doing? We will have none of that superstition here!"

William felt immediately irritated and unaccountably embarrassed. He hoped he was not obviously red-faced, and cleared his throat loudly before taking command of the scene. "What can you tell me about finding Mr. Abbott's body and were you alone when you did so?" He was acutely aware that all of sudden he himself was the awkward center of attention-Blake and Hodge were looking at him as well, and he wanted to focus back on the crime.

"I found it odd that Mr. Abbott was not in the kitchen to greet me but I went on my usual morning rounds per protocol," Mr. Wilson answered after a long pause. "The hall clock chimed precisely the quarter hour as I walked through, so that would be eight-fifteen this morning. I let Cook and the scullery boy in when I arrived, and they remained in _their_ place in the kitchen."

Getting the case underway was a relief – this he knew how to do, having learned as much as he could in the past five years, from whomever he could, about being a good police officer. William noted the time on the hall's great cherry-wood case clock appeared accurate, letting go of the implication of what 'place' the constabulary belonged in the grand scheme of things. "Were you aware there was a break-in before you found him?" William wanted to know.

"No. I surmised that quickly enough, detective, when I found him," Mr. Wilson said somewhat sarcastically, pointing to a broken window towards the rear of the hallway.

William ignored the jab—difficult interviews and witnesses were nothing new. "What was Mr. Abbott's role here at this establishment?"

Mr. Wilson remained stiff and unspeaking for a long minute - William thought he was going to outright refuse. "We are the only establishment that has staff on duty all night," the butler finally shared, "since we have rooms on the third floor for members to use for over-night accommodations. Mr. Abbott was our night porter, tending to guests needs should any arise, taking early deliveries etcetera. He's been with the club since its founding. He must have surprised a burglar and been killed for his trouble."

William heard the smallest bit of sadness creep into the butler's officious demeanor. Keeping his face as neutral as possible, he continued. "We are going to need to search the premises and get a list of what is missing. What rooms are these and what are they used for?" He pointed to the pocket doors on either side of the hall which he assumed led to lounges or meeting areas of some sort. "Are these door locked?"

"Yes, they are at all times. And before you ask, members have keys, myself and Mr. Abbott as night porter-no one else. But I must insist. You cannot search those rooms. They are off limits to anyone but members!" The butler sounded shocked at the idea of a lowly copper pawing through the club's valuables.

"Never the less, a search will be made," William insisted, finding it hard to believe that rule went un-violated. "When the coroner gets here we will have to assemble men for an inquest…"

"That is impossible! It is already worth my position that you three have entered as far as you have." The butler's composure was shredding even more.

William tried to sound reasonable. "I am sure any of your members who are barristers of solicitors can verify…"

"Oh-no gentleman here would so something as sordid as be involved in criminal cases, how appalling…"

"Surely you will allow a physician into your premises…?" William was not leaving much room for argument, but that did not satisfy Mr. Wilson until the detective pointed out how inappropriate it was to have such a tasteless disagreement directly over the dear departed Mr. Abbott's corpse.

William allowed the butler to stalk off, sending Hodge after him to take statements from the kitchen staff and start the process of gathering men for the inquest. "Constable Blake, it seems you did a yeoman's job at getting us in here in the first place. Thank you. You were first on the scene and your observations are valuable. What do you think of that broken window?" William saw that Blake perked up, obviously he was not used to being asked his opinion.

The constable answered eagerly. "I saw that there is glass inside on the floor as well as outside. It looks like someone broke the glass and then reached in to open the window." He hesitated before adding. "And look at where the glass is broken and where the latch is. No average man's arm is long enough to have reached through to that latch. I doubt this was the point of entry."

"Very good observation," William praised. "Did you move the body? Touch anything?" He had his notebook out sketching the scene and measuring the space with a folding wooden measuring rule.

"No, sir. Everything is just as I first saw it. Why?"

William got down on his hands and knees, looking at how the light was playing over the body and the carpet. He pulled some fibers up with a tweezer and placed them in a twist of paper. "Mr. Wilson says he did not touch Mr. Abbott either. Look at how he is positioned and the marks on Mr. Abbott's face which appear consistent with carpet fibre impressions-how did they get there if he fell face up? Also notice there are alterations in the nap of the carpet that align with the body, coming from the direction of that supposedly locked room." He stood up in one swift motion. "Constable Blake-this man has been moved."

 **X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X**

Blake led the way back to the kitchen where Mr. Wilson was blocking the tradesmen's entrance, insisting that while Dr. Johnson and his stretcher bearers may possibly come in, the citizens Constable Hodge assembled for the inquest most certainly cannot. William left the butler and both constables at it while he guided Dr. Arthur Johnson to the corpse.

The doctor was one of three part-time coroners the city contracted with and had crossed paths with William before. "Constable Murdoch. A little outside Station House No. 1's district, aren't you?" He placed his medical bag on the floor to removed his gloves, then touch and try to manipulate the corpse's limbs, neck and jaw. He checked the man's eyes, pressed on his belly and palpated his head. "I'd say he's been dead as long as twelve hours and as few as eight. Rigor has completely set in."

"So, roughly from ten pm last night until two in the morning. And the cause of death?" William prompted. The time frame matched his own guess.

"In other circumstances I might say heart attack by his age and the look of his face, but I am told there was a break-in so you are assuming an assault, a murder? And where is Detective Wyatt?" Dr. Johnson asked, apparently hoping to give his impressions directly to the man in charge and not deal with a lowly constable.

William gave a short smile. "I have been promoted to acting detective at Station 4, Dr. Johnson. This is my first case. And yes, for now, the assumption is that he died during the course of a crime, a robbery. Do you see any bruising from a fight? Signs of a struggle? What do you think about how rigor is fixed and lividity? I noticed his face appears to have some blood pooling does it not? And the marks on his face? Anything else you can tell me about the body or the death?"

"I will not speculate on any of that-have to get the man's clothing off for the autopsy," was all the doctor would say. William saw Dr. Johnson was obviously not impressed with the promotion, and as usual was not very forthcoming with details.

"He appears to have been moved," William pointed out. "More than what would have been necessary to check to see if he was alive."

"May I remind you the body is _my_ purview, Murdoch. Now can we get on with the witnesses so I can go about my own business?" Dr. Johnson gestured for his Gladstone bag and William hefted it up to his hand.

"Thank you, doctor," William said politely, admiring the utility of such a travel case to carry tools of the medical profession. He wondered if a portmanteau like that would be useful for police work...

Making his way back to the kitchen in thought, William overheard Mr. Wilson speaking on a private telephone, naming a well-known judge in measured, sycophantic tones. The butler hung up the receiver just as William passed by. "I am advised to allow your inquest procedures in hopes you will be done before we serve the midday meal. Just get it over with!"

 _Finally,_ William thought, _two difficult men in agreement._ "Thank you. Mr. Wilson. When we are done, I will speak with you further."

William was impressed at how smoothly Hodge and Blake got the witnesses to look at the body and the window and the locked doors and back out on the street with instructions to show up at half past ten o'clock Monday morning for the official inquest. Blake left with Dr. Johnson and the body for the city morgue, while William and Hodge finished their questions.

He did not think questioning the butler would go as well. "Mr. Wilson, I must ask you if you are certain you found Mr. Abbott exactly as you showed Constable Blake and myself. You did not touch anything or move the body? Perhaps to see if he was merely injured or still alive?"

The butler's shoulders shot up. "Quite sure. One could not mistake him for being among the living."

"I see." William had been prepared for this, and was going to try some leverage. "Then I must ask you again for the names of the men who stayed here last night. One of them appears to have either been involved with this death or interfered with a corpse, since I do not believe Mr. Abbott was killed in that hallway." He was pleased to see the tension gathering in the butler's posture. "I am going to search this whole building and I am going to need the names of all the members who have keys, beginning with the ones who were here at closing last night." William was hoping that by making those threats he'd get a concession without needing a warrant in hand.

"I cannot, I will not surrender any list to you, because I do not have one. Only the member known as 'Number One' can do so." Mr. Wilson glowered under thick brows. "I have been advised to disallow any further intrusion into these matters until the club's counsel is present and you are chaperoned."

 _Been advised! Of course he would. A place like this was bound to be teeming with members admitted to the bar._ William observed that despite his failed attempt at intimidating the butler, the man was swinging between outrage and terror at the idea of the constabulary having broad access to the building and its members. Apparently Inspector Brackenreid's concern about the privacy of powerful men was well founded. William used the leverage he had to squeeze out names and contact information for the three men who slept there the night before. The rest he was told he has to wait for.

"Thank you, Mr. Wilson. My men and I will be back." William liked the sound of saying 'my men' and was feeling confident in how he was managing this case so far: He had the body, evidence, witness statements, a short list of items which appeared to be missing from the club, an estimated time of death of between roughly when the club closed up for the night and two in the morning, and a theoretical motive of a robbery gone wrong.

He also had a substantial list of questions to get answers for: 1) What was the exact cause of death and was there a more refined time of death? 2) Where was the location of the actual crime scene? 3) Was there was more physical evidence proving the body was moved and regarding the robbery? 4) What would a fuller search of the building for additional missing items yield? 5) Why did Mr. Abbott have to die?

He used the club's own telephone to start the process of obtaining a warrant to search the building and get the names of members, since he was not getting anywhere on his own by being polite about it. Best of all, he'd even managed to get some dignity for Mr. Abbott by getting his body taken right out of the club's beautiful front doors rather than hauling him through the labyrinth of hallways to the back, even if Mr. Wilson refused to assist in the process.

William was feeling good about the pace of the investigation…and not even time for luncheon yet!


	3. Chapter 3

**X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X**

 **Chapter Three**

In fact, William was feeling quite satisfied offering Inspector Brackenreid a concise summary of the morning's activities. His superior listened without interruption and seemed more interested in all the details than his previous inspector ever was, allowing William an opportunity to bask in the expected praise for a job well begun.

He was met with disappointment.

"Don't look so smug, Murdoch. I've already gotten a call from the mayor and the chief constable. Bloody Hell! I told you to be diplomatic, not a bull in a china shop. Three hours on the job and you are already stacking up complaints." Thomas was unhappy about the immediately negative pressure he was receiving and nearly snatched the investigation back to do it himself…until he realized Murdoch had things well in hand and had not totally succumbed to being blocked by the powers that be.

Thomas rather admired that, even if he was not about to let on. "Which men do you want to interview first?" Murdoch handed him the list and Thomas's eyebrows rose. "Christ!—you don't do things by half, do you? You have an alderman, a Member of Parliament and Mr. Robert Simpson who owns about six city blocks. You are going to need a quick primer on the ways of modern gentlemen and a sharp point to needle your way through whatever layers of protection they throw up around themselves."

William suppressed a grimace at the inspector's mouth _and_ his observations. "Yes, sir. They are likely the last people to see Mr. Abbott alive, er….except for the killer, of course." There was no levity in the comment. "Inspector, do you know if there have been robberies at the other larger, upper class men's clubs?"

"No. As far as we know neither the Albany Club nor the National Club have reported anything. I will get you all we have on the other break-ins. What are your next steps?" Brackenreid was nervous about having Murdoch question three such powerful men about a murder. He was preparing again to step in and take the reins if he did not like what he was going to hear.

William knew Brackenreid was testing him, so he pulled his thoughts together. "I think we need to treat the men who slept there overnight as witnesses, possibly material witnesses, depending on what they have to say. I think these conversations can be conducted discreetly, but it would be dereliction of duty to specifically exclude them because of their position in the community…."

Thomas was relieved Murdoch was at least thinking about the implications of dragging men from the upper classes into the grubbier aspects of Toronto life, but he was not convinced the new acting detective he was up to the task. Murdoch's previous station house covered much poorer and industrial part of town, not streets filled with mansions and elegant businesses. "I agree with you so far. What else have you got?"

Flipping through his notebook, William began to check off items, feeling like he was in more comfortable territory. "We need a complete list of what else might be missing from the club besides some silver-service. We need to check pawn shops for the missing items. In addition I think a check on second hand shops and with fences of stolen goods are in order. We may need to call other station houses in that regard for leads—my old station house in particular has experienced a series of petty break-ins where the proceeds were fenced."

William took a breath before attacking the next topic. "I want constables to track down all the Toronto Club's staff members, starting with those who were there last evening, to confirm their whereabouts in preparation for checking alibis. I want to search the club itself more thoroughly. I am not convinced that hallway is where he was killed, in fact I think the body was moved and I want to I know by whom and why. I will ask Dr. Johnson's opinion on the preliminary cause of death and then look for associated physical evidence once I go back with more men…"

"I heard there is a special liquor and cigar room in that building… seems like a great place to steal from. Was anything disturbed in there?" Brackenreid allowed his mind a small moment to imagine such a glorious masculine retreat.

William gritted his teeth. "I have no idea, sir. I was barred from looking beyond the hallway where the body was found and the various storage rooms which appeared to be ransacked. We went in and out of the service doors…."

Thomas had a quick flash of exactly how that transpired—no trouble at all visualizing his new, young-looking acting detective showing up, helmet in hand, begging admission to a bastion of the establishment. His irritation returned—irritation this time at Society's entitled upper crust.

"Murdoch, if you are going to work out here, you need to learn about these people and the ways of your betters… and how to handle them." Thomas shook his head and came in closely to his detective's ear. "Listen. I approve of the direction of your investigation. I am going to help you with these inquiries—I'll take the ex- alderman Mr. Piper and the MP… you talk with Mr. Simpson since he'll be back at the Toronto Club this afternoon. Give the men their assignments and tell the next of kin the bad news, after which go home and get out of that uniform and into your civvies. Then you are going _back_ to that club, _get_ that list of names, search high and low wherever the evidence takes you, and you are going in through the _front_ door. Understood?!"

 **X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0**

William let himself into his boarding house with a key—he was the only boarder Mr. and Mrs. Kitchen allowed this privilege by virtue of being an officer of the law. The house was quiet as he took the stairs to the second floor room where he'd lived since coming to Toronto a little more than five years before. Mr. Kitchen was away gaining his strength at a sanitarium for those with consumption and Mrs. Kitchen was at her church meeting at St. Paul's this time every Saturday.

His small quarters at the back of the house held a narrow wardrobe which William stood in front of in some frustration. He'd always thought of himself as having the good manners of a gentleman, even if not the breeding, and could conduct himself in any setting without giving offense. He'd felt diminished by what Inspector Brackenreid implied about his ability to get the necessary interviews and needing to fit into rarified social settings by dressing a certain way, as if being a gentleman was about sartorial choices and not character, and furthermore the implication was William had been found lacking.

Alas, the contents of his closet bore that out. William had his uniform jacket, pants, shirts, boots, rain slicker and wool overcoat plus his official helmet, all bought and paid for out of his slender salary. He had an outfit he could wear when he rode his wheel or relaxed on those rare days he had time and inclination for it, and he had a sober wool tweed jacket, vest and trousers reserved for Mass every Sunday. Mrs. Kitchen kept everything neat and clean for him, however none of it was the least bit fashionable. His bowler and forage hats hung on the back of his door on hooks. In a trunk were some left over clothing and a cap or two from work as a logger and ranch hand—too sorry to wear. A pair of black half-brogues, a lamb's wool Astrakhan hat and a seal-skin coat rounded out the collection.

 _How on earth did I acquire so many hats?_ he complained to the empty room.

He shed his uniform and donned his Sunday best, thinking about the little he gleaned from Dr. Johnson and from Mr. Abbott's personal effects, and the interview he had with the night-porter's next of kin, a brother named Chester. He found Chester Abbott just where Constable Hodge said he'd be—at a pub rather than at a job. William had first asked at the bar, and the barkeep pointed out the man sitting in a corner well on the way to intoxication. William expressed condolences and Chester Abbott erupted in shock and anger at his brother's death saying: _"I knew that job'd kill 'im! All those toffs looked down on my brother. His loyalty to them's what killed him…"_ Mr. Abbott went on to mournfully castigate himself for indulging in a dice game just when his brother was facing his Maker. William knew that people sometimes vented their anger or grief in odd ways, but that was one of the oddest statements he's ever taken.

Once dressed, William dithered trying to place all his constabulary equipment into his suit's various pockets and then clamped his black felt bowler on his head, thinking if it was good enough for the Lord on Sundays it was good enough for what he had to do today. He checked his appearance in the hall mirror before closing and locking the boardinghouse door behind him, hoping he was attired properly enough.

He took his bicycle over to the Station House on Wilton Street where a messenger had delivered the requested search warrants. He collected a constable and the police carriage for a return trip to the Toronto Club. His attempt to gain entrance through the club's front door was rather decidedly rebuffed, but the side entrance still got him into the building.

A short, blunt conversation with the butler, accompanied by the judge's order, won him conversations with each staff member who worked Friday evening and confirmed that Mr. Abbott was last seen by staff as he closed and locked the doors behind them about eleven-thirty at night.

Without seeking permission, William took himself into the bowels of the club, using the building's master key procured from Ross Abbott's pocket at the morgue, and opened the doors which William suspected led to the actual crime scene. It appeared to be that very special smoking and drinking lounge Inspector Brackenreid asked about. There were no obvious signs of damage or a struggle, but he noted a gap in the array of liquor bottles set behind an elegantly appointed service bar. He knelt down and gathered a sample of the carpet to compare to the fibre impressions he found on Mr. Abbott's face. Drag marks in the carpet had not been completely erased, showing that this was indeed the primary crime scene from which the body was moved into the hallway. William still wanted to know by whom and why. He took measurement and notes, wishing, not for the first time, he had a way to photograph crime scenes.

The interview with Mr. Simpson, who was in William's estimation a true gentleman, was only mildly awkward as well as ultimately unrevealing. The landowner and merchant (and rival of Mr. Timothy Eaton's establishment) had retired early and heard nothing of any use. The last time Mr. Simpson saw the night porter was before ten o'clock and his room was as far away from where the body was found as physically/ architecturally possible. He was even accommodating enough to examine the liquor bottles with William, since the constable who came along was painstakingly counting every spoon with the butler.

William returned to the kitchen in a contemplative mood. Mr. Wilson was in his butler's pantry (more of an office and china storage room) and appeared finished with his inventory. William accepted the complete list of missing items, then asked: "Mr. Wilson, have you this list of members who were here Friday evening?"

The butler glared in response. "You were not supposed to enter the club proper without a chaperone. That was not the arrangement…."

William spoke sharply, vexed at the butler's obstruction. "Mr. Wilson, you appear to have been long-time acquaintances, if not friends, with the deceased; I would have thought you should be eager to find his killer. I will have that list of members, now please, if only to forestall a full squad of my constables from conducting a much less quiet search of this building _for_ that list. "

 **X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X**

Thomas was fidgeting at his desk, mindful of the time as his clock ticked down past four o'clock. He'd taken a walk for his dinner break to get away from the paint fumes while a constable arranged for short meetings with Mr. Piper and Mr. John Small, the Conservative Member of Parliament for Toronto East. Thomas admitted to himself an ulterior motive in wishing to scrape an acquaintance with each of those men, planning on approaching them as if he were doing them a favour. _It never hurts to be seen as being helpful to powerful men,_ he told himself. He was not merely boasting nor joking when he mentioned ambition to Margaret this morning, and he knew full well his wife was just as socially competitive and it would please her no end to think he was hobnobbing with the best sort of citizens.

The questioning was brief and to the point, done and over more quickly than Thomas believed possible—he suspected the head of the Toronto Club - their mysterious "Number One"- might have had something to do with that.

Letting Murdoch run this investigation was stretching Thomas's nerves; he knew himself to be a take-charge sort of bloke wishing he was in the thick of things, not pinned behind a desk. He shook his head— _Better get used to it me ol' mucker,_ he complained to himself. He looked at the clock again. _Where in Blue Blazes was that bloody Murdoch!_

Thomas had abstained from his usual ale with his mid-day meal and longed for a shot of something to settle himself down about now. He was preparing to bob out for a pint when his _other_ prayer was answered. "Murdoch! A word please!" he requested. "Get in the front door this time, did you?"

William reported his findings, including the fact he thought he knew where the purported murder weapon had come from. "Dr. Johnson's preliminary word to me, even before he completed the autopsy, was that something struck the victim's chest full on, cracking his sternum and a rib and likely either stopping his heart or causing a heart attack."

Thomas knew Dr. Johnson did not like to be rushed and wondered how Murdoch got the information. "He told you all of that, did he? Not without leaning on him I suppose. So you are certain that the inquest Monday morning will find for foul play?"

"Yes sir. I believe the object which struck Mr. Abbott was a liquor bottle from the club. I found space for a bottle in the collection that exactly matches the dimensions of the bruise on the body. Mr. Simpson was gracious enough to verify that for me."

"Oh, was he now?" Thomas checked just to be sure Murdoch was not being cheeky. "Did he have anything else helpful to say?"

"No sir. The bottle is gone, perhaps taken in the robbery. Using a bottle as a weapon indicates to me an un-premeditated crime. Mr. Simpson heard nothing in the night, saw nothing in the morning. I do have a list of stolen goods—it is not much, certainly not much to kill for. And I have the list of men who were at the club last evening, ten in all, six of whom have private telephones in their residences or places of business."

"Murdoch, I don't think the club members are going to have much to tell us," Thomas voiced his skepticism. His own questioning produced no information either and he said so. "You cannot imagine one of these men did this, do you? I think you need to stick to the robbery angle. I have a point about solving cases, especially murder cases. Out of all motives, love, hate and greed, money is a good line of inquiry. It is the one with the best paper trail."

"I understand sir, but to be thorough we need to know if any of these men saw anything as they were leaving." Convincing Inspector Brackenreid of this was going to be a challenge, on the other hand he agreed there was something to the robbery angle. "In addition to those interviews, I think we need to look into who might be melting down the metal or shipping it out to the States. There is a plan afoot south of the border to get the price of silver propped up and make the national treasury buy more silver for the reserves, although stealing silver to melt it down would be inefficient…"

Thomas liked the sounds of that. "In my experience, most criminal are not very bright. Trying to melt it down might explain why there has been so little of the silver turned up on the streets. The men have been all over the pawn shops, fences and traders today, and have turned up nothing."

"I think we can try by the docks and train yards, look for smuggling, shady import/export businesses." William saw the inspector nod a 'yes' in agreement, so while his new boss was in a positive mood he decided to press forward. "It still seems odd to me about the Toronto Club. Someone moved Mr. Abbott's body, sir. Someone who was in that club, someone with a key…"

 _He's like a dog with a bone, isn't he?_ thought Thomas, taking in the full effect of Murdoch standing so stiffly in front of him. _Reminds me a little of Percival Giles, God help me_.

Thomas inspected Murdoch's suit, making a guess it was his best (and probably only) suit…perfectly neat, ordinary and respectable, even if the pockets bulged oddly. But hardly a _gentleman's_ suit. "If you can't get into a men's social club during off hours on official constabulary business, how can you be expect to be admitted through the front doors of high society looking like a game-keeper's son?" He saw Murdoch's fists twitch in anger and ignored that. _A good officer needs to face all the facts,_ he reasoned."I suggest you get a suit like my own or something similar." He went to his desk and scribbled a note. "My tailor, Mr. Reda, might be able to help you out. Go see him Monday and have a new suit by end of the week. That's an order."

"Yes, sir."

"All right. The constables will be deployed looking for the stolen goods. You and I will split the club's list, but tread carefully. These men are not public about their membership in the Toronto Club, so this list does not leave your hand or mine, understood? It appears the club and its members have decided for their own purposes to cooperate. We will make brief, polite inquiries only at their homes or business, none at the station house unless we have a reason to suspect one of these upright men."

William quirked his mouth, uncertain if that was a joke. He'd been turning the problem over in his head all day, frustrated at the gaps in information. _My first case is not going as well as I hoped_ and he was discouraged. _With any luck_ , he thought _I'll keep my new position until at least Monday._

William brought his attention back as Inspector Brackenreid continued. "But I still want you to focus the investigation into who profits from all of this. The lads did some work while you were lollygagging amongst the idle rich and we'll send 'em out again as you suggest. As for these gentlemen," he waved his list. "Mind a low profile and don't make any calls to ask questions after nine o'clock tonight, it's just not done. Oh, and Murdoch…Do take a carriage instead of that wheeled contrivance of yours, and don't take a constable with you. Aim for discretion. "

William knew he was being warned. "Yes, sir. I understand."

"Best y' do…"

X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X

Margaret watched her husband take his first bite of Saturday-night pork-roast, waiting to see the pleasure on his face and then hear him hum in appreciation. She nodded to their sons that they had permission to eat now that their father had started. Bobby was just recently allowed to eat supper at the table rather than in the nursery, and was usually impatient with the rituals, being much too young to really understand, _but never too young to start learning_ , in Margaret's opinion. She had started insisting that the family "dress" for supper each Saturday evening such as the aristocracy did, and looking at John and Bobby sitting left and right of their well-dressed father in their very own best jackets and pants warmed her heart.

Thomas had come home on time but said little about work. Margaret filled the dinner table conversation with trivialities for the sake of the children, but sent them away as soon as dessert was done, so she could speak freely with her husband.

"Well, Thomas?" She put on her most expectant air and waited. She was dying to know how his day had gone.

He knew exactly what she'd want to hear and therefore regaled her with a somewhat edited story about the murder of Mr. Abbott and brushing up the acquaintanceship of important citizens of Toronto the Good. He ended with his first impression of the Station House's new acting detective.

"Murdoch is smart enough and when I look him in the eye someone looks back, if you know what I mean. He has his own interviews to do and I am hoping he does not bollocks them up. I have him sorting out the mess Detective Lamb left on the old robbery cases and wished him luck with that chicken scratch of Lamb's—it is so bad it might as well be in code."

"But what do you think of _him_?" she asked. "You must have more of an opinion than that."

"He rides a bicycle, of all things, to and from crime scenes if you can imagine!" Thomas did not know how to ride one and did not see the purpose, much to the annoyance of his sons who had been begging for one of those contraptions. He sighed then laughed. "Murdoch has legible handwriting, that's the only thing I know for sure." Thomas set his napkin down and praised his wife's cooking again. "I hope he'll do but I can replace him if there are problems, considering he is already ruffling some feathers. He will need more diplomacy than he ever did in his previous precinct."

"Why, _you_ are very good at that and it takes a certain sensibility as well as experience, does it not? Despite what you say I can tell you like him so far. Perhaps you will invite him to dine with us?"

While Thomas valued a man who could speak his mind, and Murdoch appeared to be capable (if only the man could also navigate the political niceties), he was not ready to offer entertainment at his supper table yet.

"We'll see, Margaret. That's assuming he lasts through the week!"

 **X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0**

…" _Here is what we came up with, sir. This is all of Detective Lamb's notes, the typed reports, evidence boxes, and what the other precincts sent over." Constable Hodge gestured to the stacks of papers and other items covering two surfaces which formed a pseudo partner's desk in the central portion of the station house, as Constable Blake placed the last bundle on top._

" _And from today?" William asked._

" _Not much, sir." Blake answered. "None of the missing items has turned up anywhere in the usual places. Inspector Brackenreid is having the night shift bring in the known fences and traffic-men to interrogate—catch them tonight when they think they are safe and then push them hard is his intention. Constables started asking around the docks and the train stations as you asked—but it is slow going."_

" _Thank you, constable. Is there some where I can work?" William asked, not wishing to commandeer a workspace belonging to another man unless it was necessary._

" _The detective's office is rather, umm, occupied, but I suppose you can use these desks for now and the roll-top desk in there." Hodge pointed to a large desk shoved against the wall under the office's window. He had already apologized for the disturbance—the rest of the station house had been squared away today, mostly by depositing extra items into the spare office._

 _William grimaced. Perhaps it was not a good idea to 'move in' to the designated detective's office after all, until his promotion was a little more definitive. He looked up, pleased the new building had been electrified. "I suppose the light is better in here…"_

…That was eight hours ago.

He'd given up working on his list of gentlemen to ask questions of at nine p.m. as instructed, to come back to the station house to tackle the mountain of reports about break-ins waiting for him. The place was empty except for the night watch, who'd shared a cheese sandwich and tea with one starving 'acting detective.'

William set the last file aside and rubbed the back if his painfully stiff neck. The station house was silent. He'd been so absorbed in what he was doing the time had flown, surprising him at the lateness of the hour. He was exhausted but elated from the results of analyzing all that data. He wrapped up his report and placed it on Inspector Brackenreid's desk and headed home, hoping Mrs. Kitchen kept a dish on the stove for him to eat before saying his prayers and falling into bed.

One thing he now knew for certain was that there was a ring of thieves specializing in systematically robbing unoccupied buildings, and that what happened at The Toronto Club was _not_ part of that crime spree, and possibly related to something more sinister.


	4. Chapter 4

**X0X0X0X0X0X00X**

 **Chapter Four**

 **Sunday Morning April 13** **th** **1890**

The next morning, William woke feeling disoriented. Twenty four hours ago he'd been a constable at Station House No. 1, now he was the lead detective in a case that was taking him into many of Toronto's highest and lowest corners. He knew he needed to establish himself before any of the other constabulary's detectives would accept him as a peer, and as such had to distance himself from his fellow constables. He found himself suddenly alone in his new position, simultaneously supposed to solve the crime, please his new superior, bring discipline and focus to men whom he did not know - and who were passed over for the promotion and likely unhappy about it. His feeling of being on top of things vanished with the morning light spilling across his single bed as surely as sunlight was burning off the early morning fog outside his window.

He shook off his maudlin thoughts: _Well, alone is hardly anything new._

He rushed around to ready himself for early Mass so he could get back to work on the case-no day of rest for him. His nose sent his stomach rumbling as he came down the stairs, picking up the scent of Mrs. Kitchen's chicken slow - roasting itself in her coal oven; meals that basically cooked themselves were his landlady's greatest culinary achievements, and hard to go wrong with. He imagined the last of the root cellar's savory potatoes, carrots, parsnips and onions enhanced with herbs, all melting into the meat, followed perhaps by a custard for his sweet. She would be serving it to her boarders for dinner after Mass, and William was regretful to miss it. The dear lady herself was in the downstairs hallway, so he greeted her.

"Good morning to you as well, Mr. Murdoch. You came home so late, and now you are going out so early. Is it a case you are working on then?" she asked, hoping to be enlightened. Her husband was quite fond of Mr. Murdoch as was she. Beatrice Kitchen loved to eaves-drop when her husband and the constable discussed interesting events, especially the doings of the constabulary, therefore while her husband was away she missed the conversations.

"Yes, it is. Unfortunately that will mean I cannot break my fast with your delicious chicken. I am off to early Mass." He shrugged his coat on.

"Mr. Murdoch, let me go with you, since we both are up." Mrs. Kitchen had her hat and cape on in a flash, and they were both out the door and walking south on Ontario Street towards St. Paul's, with her being squired on his arm. She chattered on about inconsequentials for the first part of the walk, not really caring that her companion was mostly silent, before getting down to what she really wanted to know and her ulterior motive for going to early Mass with him. "I will be visiting Mr. Kitchen in the sanitarium this afternoon, and you know how he likes to hear about your investigations. Perhaps you can fill me in with something I can take to him? I'm sure it will do him a world of good, lighten his spirits if you would be so kind…" She fished for information shamelessly.

William had hardly heard a word his landlady said, occupied as he was with questions about Mr. Abbott's death. He'd helped before in investigations, even broke a few cases for his detective (and usually NOT gotten any credit for doing so, only a dressing down for embarrassing Detective Wyatt in the process.) The debacle regarding letting Michael Cudmore escape justice no longer ate at him, but he was concerned about making such a fatal error again. As much as _Inspector_ Brackenreid cautioned him to tread lightly with upper class citizens, _Detective_ Brackenreid's' reputation was for taking a more physical approach to suspects, something William could not stomach, and unfortunately had no real right to object to, if it came to that.

Lost in thought, he failed to see Sergeant Seymour, also on his way to Mass, approach. "Murdoch! Good news travels fast." Seymour was a fellow bicycle enthusiast, and one of the very few co-religionists on the police force. He offered William a hearty hand shake. "Well done! Brackenreid couldn't have chosen better. Starting Monday at Station 4 are you?"

"Yes…No…I mean I have started already. Thank you." Hearing how genuinely happy Seymour was affected William deeply. Unable to quite fend off the sin of pride, he accepted the congratulations and explained to Mrs. Kitchen what the fuss was about.

"Oh my goodness, Mr. Murdoch. Acting Detective! How wonderful! Mr. Kitchen will be so very pleased to hear that we have a detective residing with us." She tightened her grip on his arm and beamed at him. "I suppose with your promotion you will want to take a better room, perhaps the one at the front of the house with the larger window?"

It never occurred to William to alter his living situation. "No, Mrs. Kitchen. I am on probation after all and there will be no raise in my pay packet."

"Nonsense—I am sure they will make it official very soon. Imagine, a detective living in _my_ boarding house. Marvelous." Mrs. Kitchen's chin was raised in her own sense of pride. "I can't wait to tell Mr. Kitchen."

William started observing the other parishioners who were walking to St. Paul's as he came up towards the stone steps to enter. These were not predominantly rich people in the congregation. Working class men were in their Sunday best, wearing proper, sturdy, clean clothes, bowler hats or flat wool caps, mostly boots on their feet. A few men sported high hats. The more affluent arrived by carriage, dressed in better quality wool or conservative morning suits. If anything, he thought there was much wider variation in what the women wore than the men, and that his appearance was not out of place amongst the congregation.

Inspector Brackenreid's jibe about looking like a game-keeper's son still irked him. William thought his own wardrobe was serviceable, but as he knew nothing about fashion, he was already planning to investigate what information was available at his subscription library about appropriate men's clothing. On a whim, he ventured to ask Mrs. Kitchen (as the only female of his acquaintance to whom he could make such an inquiry-truth be told the _only_ female of his acquaintance), something along the lines of whether he should get a new suit to fit his new station and if so what kind?

Mrs. Kitchen paused on the top step of the church. "Why, of course you need a new suit. Mr. Murdoch. You are coming up in the world, aren't you?" She looked puzzled as if that was the most obvious thing in the world and she was surprised he had not known that.

"Oh." His mouth fell open a bit before he caught himself. "My superior suggests a morning suit…"

She demurred. "Oh, no…I think that is a bit old fashioned for you and much too elderly - looking on a young man such as yourself. Besides, won't you still be conducting investigations, traipsing who knows where, getting mud everywhere?" Mrs. Kitchen cast a critical eye on the dark tweed suit which she'd been keeping mended, sponged and pressed for the last five years. "Your current suit is presentable, but your lapels aren't quite right, and you have too many things in your pockets - that just pulls the jacket out of alignment. And your shirt with that thin collar and tie, well…."

William listened as his landlady picked his wardrobe apart, relieved when they could enter the church. Just before the threshold, she paused as if she was trying to decide about giving the final blow. "And you won't want that seal-skin coat anymore will you? It is not a gentleman's coat and the smell when it gets wet is appalling! You need a good cloth coat like the City men." She looked down at what he carried in his hands. "Then there is your hat. It is rather faded and worn I'm afraid…"

William stoically absorbed the bad news before blessing himself and guiding her to a pew for the service. Once on his knees in prayer, he shut out all such mundane concerns to devote himself to worship.

After Mass and feeling renewed, William escorted Mrs. Kitchen home, grabbed a hardboiled egg to eat and got on his bicycle to spend his Sunday afternoon completing the list of possible witnesses. He took to announcing himself as _'William Murdoch, Toronto Constabulary'_ at the various handsome front doors, being admitted more often than not, despite new insecurity about how he was attired. In-between, he paid visits to other social and benevolent institutions to ask questions about thefts, building a more detailed picture of the breadth of criminal activity he was uncovering. His stop at the library before it closed rewarded him with a slim volume by Charles Clucas, entitled the _Etiquette of Men's Dress,_ which he put aside for close study later tonight.

X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X

 **Monday Morning April 14** **th** **1890**

"Thank you, gentlemen. We will know more after the Coroner's Inquest at ten thirty. Constable Hodge, you have that detail-take whomever you need to assemble the jury. Dismissed."

 _Well, thankfully no one was overtly insubordinate,_ Acting Detective William H. Murdoch thought, as he completed his first official Station House muster and report, handing out the day's assignments under the watchful eye of Inspector Brackenreid. His superior motioned him into his private office as the men went about their duties. William made a surreptitious glance at the inspector's overcoat and hat decorating a corner coat rack, then a reappraisal of his boss's pristine cutaway morning suit… _More up to date than a frock coat,_ William noticed. This was in contrast to his own hat, which had flown off his head while he rode in to work, and was in even more ragged a state than yesterday.

"Murdoch! Am I boring you?" Thomas thought he saw the man's attention wandering. "I have your report, but I can't make head or tails of it." He was annoyed and wasn't shy about showing it. He spent the first half hour of his Monday morning observing how the men reacted to their new acting detective and trying to understand the pages of closely spaced numbers Murdoch left for him as an update on the investigation. Unlike with Detective Lamb, the problem was not Murdoch's excellent penmanship. "What does this mumbo-jumbo mean?"

"Sir? That is the proof that certain of these petty thefts and robberies are not run of the mill crimes but part of an organized ring of thieves," William answered.

"Proof? It's a bunch of numbers on a page and we already knew that these robberies were connected, didn't we?"

"Well, sir, I did an analysis of the evidence and converted it into a mathematical probability. Some of them fit no pattern at all. However, it shows that while this subset of crimes," he pointed to a section of paper, "can be tied together, Mr. Abbott's death is unlikely to be part of that pattern of thefts."

Thomas was flummoxed. _Mathematical probability? Who does that?_ "Why not, may I ask? A break- in at night, stealing silver and liquor, none of the goods turning up again…sounds to me like Mr. Abbott was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Even though there are similarities, the Toronto Club is different not only in the fact a man was killed. There are too many inconsistencies, and I have the math to prove it."

This was not what Thomas expected from a police detective. "You have given testimony before as a constable which is usually rather limited in scope. As detective, you have to be able to put the whole thing together to see the bigger picture. Juries and judges need hard evidence, facts, a story they can understand. Your numbers are not the kind of proof a courtroom needs."

"Yes, I know it looks like that sir, but the statistics…" William defended his work.

"Damn the statistics, Murdoch. No jury will give a toss. Tell me in plain English what you are getting at."

"Sir, I am not convinced what happened at the Toronto Club was a burglary per se. I went to almost all the men's civic or social clubs yesterday - the city blue laws only apply to the poor and not the wealthy who can afford a personal carriage on Sunday and a private place to drink or gamble…"

"You sound as if you don't approve…" Thomas pointed out. "That's a lot of leg-work. How did you get in?"

William coughed. "Er... well. I went round to the staff and got information from them, looked at the layouts of the places and compared to the police reports. There are differences." William presented a detailed grid of other places with the same style of break-ins and similar missing goods. He went back to his original idea. "But simple differences are not enough to detect an actual pattern. My analysis found two things. Number one, I believe there is an organized ring of thieves who are systematically targeting vulnerable organizations and their buildings. Furthermore, I speculate someone has organized children to do the stealing as well….there was such a youth street gang in my old precinct that would fit the bill. I believe we can catch them by setting up surveillance around a select few organizations' buildings and wait for them to show up." William handed a new sheet of paper to the Inspector, outlining his targets.

"And your next conclusion?" Thomas was not sure he trusted something as intangible as a long string of numbers, most of which were zeros and a funny-looking chart, but he was willing to give a listen.

"Number two, regarding the Toronto Club: The method of entry is different. In that building there are several obvious street-level windows leading to the basement, but none of them were broken. Instead, a rather high window along the first floor hall was broken. In fact I don't think it was a break- in at all - I think the killer was let in through a door and left in that manner as well since the hall window was not broken in a way that makes sense for entrance or exit. I believe Ross Abbott was murdered, possibly by someone he knew, and that someone later moved the body, most likely the butler, Mr. Wilson. "

"I see." Thomas was starting to be persuaded by how well Murdoch summed up the evidence he had so far, but he preferred to remain skeptical. He held up the list of places Murdoch visited. "This is what constables are for, by the way, so next time, delegate. They will come to trust you as you come to trust them." Thomas passed on that piece of wisdom, once given to him by a grizzled old army lieutenant. "Do you suspect a conspiracy of some kind between whomever killed Mr. Abbott and the butler? If so, what was the motive?"

William frowned. That has been a sore spot for him as well. "I am not sure, but if the inquest tells me what I think it will, then I have more questions for Mr. Wilson. I think we have to look at the idea that Mr. Abbott was killed and moved to cover up a crime and make it appear as if it was a burglary gone wrong-therefore we have to look more closely at anyone who had a motive to harm the night- porter specifically. Mr. Abbott's brother, Chester, plans on attending the inquest. I will have a talk with him afterwards, and ask if he knew of any secrets the victim carried or any rivalries amongst the club's staff which might become motives."

Thomas did not like where Murdoch's theory was going. "Those clubs are a hot-bed of intrigue, especially one as secretive as the Toronto Club. Over the years Mr. Abbott was likely to have been privy to all kinds of information and he was probably treated as if he was mere furniture by the members as well. I suppose he could have learned something damaging enough to get himself killed over." Thomas had a bad feeling again.

"That had occurred to me as well, sir."

"So, I will take your theories under advisement. While you are at the inquest, we are going to delve into the miscreants the lads collected over the last two nights who are currently enjoying the hospitality of our cells downstairs and see what we can come up with about that supposed robbery ring. Report back to me after the inquest. What is your next move?"

"Sir. I have just enough time before the inquest starts, so I am off to Wellington Street to see a man about a suit."

X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X

William knew he was in trouble just by the depth of the pile on the Turkish carpet under his feet. Street noise from Wellington and Front streets fell off to the barest whisper when the heavy door closed behind him and he entered what was clearly an establishment for the most wealthy of pocketbooks, the kind of place where if one had to ask for the price it meant one could not afford it.

On the way over, William had rationalized that in the position of detective, his appearance was a matter of expressing decency and the authority of the law. He knew from an early age that uniforms were helpful in identifying certain types of power: a priest's cassock or military fatigues, for instance, spoke for the man who wore them even before that man uttered any words, so a 'uniform' he could wear every day in his role as a detective made sense to him. _Special purpose clothing was merely logical_. William's choice of apparel mattered therefore, to set him apart from the constables and imbue him with authority, as well as announce his dignity as a gentleman so he could meet any man as an equal.

The financial burden of such a decision was not as obvious until he found himself inside Mr. Reda's salon and atelier. _Nothing in here could be had for less than a month's wages—perhaps more._ Sighing, William turned to leave, hoping he could go up the street and find another tailor, and nearly ran into a slender, tidy man who was looking calculatingly at his jacket and pants. "Monsieur, I am Henri. May I assist you?"

William smiled, hiding embarrassment, almost sputtering an apology for entering the wrong establishment. He had thoroughly studied the pages he borrowed from the library and had the terminology memorized, but he possessed no practical experience in a place like this. "No, thank you. I will be on my way."

"Forgive me, Monsieur, but you are in need of a new suit, are you not? If I may be so bold, by the look of you, you are accustomed to purchasing the best that you can afford and then taking very good care of it. The suit you have on is perhaps five, six years old? It served you well, but, is it now you need to replace it with something more appropriate?" Henri was hopeful. When William did not immediately object, he went on. "You will find no better tailoring than from this workshop. I am thinking Mr. Reda would be angry with me were you to leave before speaking with him. Come have some tea."

"Thank you, no. I have only until ten o'clock. I am sure this is not for me. Good morning…"

"Henri? And who do we have here?" A genteel voice wafted through the sumptuous space. A man whom William assumed was Mr. Alexander Reda came forward and smiled. Thick dark hair, a masculine nose and heavy lids over deep brown, almost black eyes defined his features. "Good morning sir. I am Mr. Alexander Reda. Please, tell me what you require."

William felt ridiculous, but answered anyway. "Good morning. I am William Murdoch. I was seeking a new suit, black wool I think, and I must have it within a week. Inspector Brackenreid suggested I come here."

Mr. Reda's face blossomed into a broad smile. "Ah, yes. A good customer. That is a man of refined taste who knows one must dress for the position one wishes to have in Society." He also assumed a judgmental expression, erasing his momentary pleasure about making clothing for the inspector and took to circling William.

William tried to follow what the tailor was doing. "I need to be able to move well, and have pockets to carry my things…I am a detective…" He was mesmerized by Mr. Reda's movements and gestures, hearing himself make requests.

As the tailor rattled off some particulars to his assistant Henri, William's awareness resurfaced.

"I am terribly sorry, but I have made an error. I cannot order a suit and I cannot imagine it could be made in only a week's time." William touched his hat by way of acknowledgement, astonished by the tailor's forward manner and hoping he could escape further embarrassment.

"Nonsense. Men come to me because they are seeking the very best." Mr. Reda continued to expound. "You are above average height, your carriage is good, you do not slouch." He said approvingly, yet with a frown on his lips. "But what _do_ you have in your pockets?" Mr. Reda brought out a silver 'valet' from a nearby shelf and tapped on its surface rather peremptorily.

William was unsure for a second and made a sour face, then started emptying his pockets. Billfold, handkerchief, notebook and pencil landed there first. Mr. Reda just shook his head. William fished his coins out of his pants pocket, and a folding knife.

"Mr. Murdoch, all of it if you please, and do tell me why a gentleman such as yourself must walk about like a tinker?"

Defeated, William brought out a few sheets of folded paper, another handkerchief, then came his folding ruler, magnifier, tweezers, jewelers loop and a small screw-driver, a twist of twine, small pliers and a wrench. "I, er… use these to examine or gather evidence." The last three items were his olive-wood rosary, an _Aristo_ slide rule and a pocket scientific reference book. He shrugged, not willing to offer them a defense.

"Better," the tailor nodded.

Satisfied, Mr. Reda made a final circuit around William, who was starting to feel like a horse being assessed for either stud or the glue factory.

"Black wool? I think not black, not with your colouring. Instead, dark charcoal or deep blue…No! Deep, deepest brown, almost black but not quite, with the subtlest ghost of a stripe in the weave… A modern sack suit I think, à la Prince Albert Victor, something to show off how fit you are and not restrict your movements as you say. With a generously collared shirt, and maroon— _No, deep green! -_ silk brocade tie... A garment that says quiet, definite competence and authority. You will not be noticed for what you are wearing, which would be vulgar in a gentleman, but you _will_ be reckoned with."

William very much liked the sounds of that, visualizing exactly how he would appear in such a beautiful suit before that sin of pride (about which he was required to remain ever vigilant) began pricking him. He made a weak attempt to protest that the price would be beyond his comfort, humiliated at having to talk about money.

The tailor looked him straight on. "Mr. Murdoch. A really excellently cut and made suit can last you ten years or more if you remain abstemious in your habits. Sir, I suggest you cannot afford _ **not**_ to have the perfect garment for your aspirations."

William thought Mr. Reda's insights were uncomfortably accurate. The moment he hesitated, he knew he was lost, groaning inwardly at the devastation to his bank account this was going to cost him, including postponing the much-desired new 'Singer' bicycle and special tires he'd been scraping and saving up for over the last eight months. He _loved_ that bicycle, fantasizing about it on a nearly daily basis.

"Henri will assist you and then I will do your measurements and I believe I have just the correct pattern for your physique…"

The process of taking accurate measurements challenged William's sense of propriety—no person had approached him that intimately since he'd been a very young lad and it took everything in him to submit to it. By the time he was hustled in the back and rather thoroughly (and intrusively) measured by Mr. Reda, he could not help but admire the tailor's knack of persuasively getting into a customer's psyche to make a sale. William knew that Mr. Reda would probably take a completely different approach with a different customer, and it was uncanny how well the tailor read him. He recognized a kindred spirit perhaps, considering part of his own job as detective was to get into the minds of witnesses and suspects to pry the truth out of them. William laughed to himself: _They say no man can hide anything from his tailor._ Mr. Reda was clearly a master at getting past any objections.

"Leave everything to me, Mr. Murdoch. Henri will construct your jacket, waistcoat and trousers using my measurements. I will order your shirts as well. Come back Thursday for a fitting." With that Mr. Reda went away like a whirlwind, leaving Henri and William to discuss choice of buttons, where and what kind of pockets were required and the colour and quality of the silk lining.

William was back on the street by ten o'clock sharp with his mind in a tumble, never having asked the price of his marvelous new gentleman's suit. _God spare me!_


	5. Chapter 5

**X0X0X0X0X0X0XX**

 **Chapter Five**

"Inspector Brackenreid, I'm surprised sir. I thought you'd be waiting for a report from Detective Murdoch after the judge rules." Constable Hodge caught his superior's eye and sidled over to him in the back of the court room to whisper. It would not do to receive the ire of Judge Cornwall, presiding down front in his 'court dress' of white wig and black robes.

"Aye, but I thought I'd see for myself," Thomas answered. After having some stiff conversations with suspects regarding the break-ins…. _Just to keep my hand in, mind you,_ he told himself, he had paced and fiddled in his office until he could not stand it any longer. This was the first murder case since he became inspector, the first one for his brand new probationary acting detective, a high profile death scene—keeping this investigation at a distance was chafing him. Since it was also his duty to make sure the case went well, protect the constabulary and restore Station House No. 4's glory, he talked himself into taking a hansom to the court house and eavesdrop on the inquest.

Thomas decided that observing Murdoch this way was going to be informative and might satisfy his urge to be in control.

"He is doing well, Inspector, everything organized and correct," Hodge offered, knowing the inspector was actually worried about his new detective. Hodge had already assembled the inquest jury and he and Constable Blake had testified. Dr. Johnson was just finishing, giving the facts that the victim, Mr. Ross Abbott, aged fifty-three, died of heart failure, brought on by being struck in the chest by the end of a large, heavy, blunt object.

In the audience, a man gasped. Thomas craned his neck to see who it was as the judge glared in the direction of the sound.

A. D. William Murdoch was called next, laying out evidence gathered at the scene and information that the object which struck Mr. Abbott was likely a liquor bottle. The Inspector was pleased to hear clear, direct answers.

"Acting Detective Murdoch, was this attack in the course of a robbery?" Thomas had noticed throughout the inquest how carefully and pointedly no one specifically mentioned the name 'Toronto Club,' only referencing the address on 107 Wellington Street. He wondered if the judge himself was a member.

"No, sir. While some items were taken from the premises, the evidence suggests that was likely a ruse. The evidence supports a deliberate killing." When Murdoch said that, there was another disturbance in the room from several observers. The judge banged on his table threatening to clear the room.

William's vantage point in the witness chair made it easy to see who was so upset. There were members of the Toronto Club's staff in attendance, with the butler Mr. Wilson becoming, if that were possible, even more stony-faced as he sat on in his seat hearing the testimony. However, the biggest reaction was from Chester Abbott. The man looked like a wreck and it was he who had gasped when the doctor offered his opinion of the cause of death. William was excused and sat as Judge Cornwall rendered the verdict: cause of death heart was failure following being struck; manner of death was homicide. William was lost in thought as his superior approached him, trying to grasp a fact or a piece of evidence that was at the periphery of his awareness and manipulate it into focus- _Something about that club..._

"Good God, Murdoch, what were you thinking?" Inspector Brackenreid hissed at him on the steps as they left the inquest. "You went beyond the facts. Are you trying to stir up a hornet's nest?" Although he did not see any newspaper men in the audience, he was very sensitized to the idea that some crack-pot reporter might create a splashy headline. "You could have equivocated."

"Sir, I answered the question put to me. The fact that the body had been moved, turned over from face down to face up well after death, was deliberately withheld since it was not germane to the cause and manner of death." William's pulse was elevated. In fact, he had not thought about the impact of sharing his theory of the case in open court and wondered only briefly how big a mistake he just made - in the case, and with the inspector. In his excitement, he pushed that aside for later.

"Inspector, did you see how Mr. Wilson behaved? And how Chester Abbott reacted in there? I was going to talk to the brother after luncheon as you and I discussed before. I think he knows something. I want to send Constables Hodge and Blake to watch him and verify where he was Friday night when his brother was killed, so I can compare what he says with the facts. If you will recall, he spontaneously offered an alibi about where he was when his brother was killed. At the time I was not suspicious—but I am now. While the constables look into Chester Abbott, I think it is time to have a conversation with Mr. Wilson, this time in the station house's interview room." William pointed after the butler who was making his exit.

Thomas was torn. _Murdoch had a good idea about talking with both men, especially if that meant the focus of the investigation would be off the club's members, but there was no way to know without following all the leads—including one's that led right back into that infernal club!_

"All right, I agree, go after him. But you make no other moves until you clear them with me."

X0X0X0X0X0X0X0XX

Thomas watched through the grille of his station house's austere wood-paneled room as Mr. Wilson was led through preliminary questions. _Murdoch has not been exaggerating at how rigid and over-controlled Mr. Wilson is._ He knew the kind of man the butler was: the kind of man who attached himself to a 'Great House' back home in England; a man whose position rose or fell according to the fortunes of the family he served. _A man like this has no family other than the crumbs of belonging his lordship dropped from his table and one who might do anything for his master to protect him, including lie for him._

He was not sure Murdoch understood that. Thomas' bitter thoughts betrayed old wounds he preferred not to examine, but which informed his ambivalence about the stratified upper classes. His hand grabbed the door knob to interrupt the interrogation, when he took in a breath and backed off. _I need to take my own advice about trusting a man to get them to trust you, and just listen._

"…Mr. Wilson. I have no evidence to support that anyone associated with the Toronto Club is a suspect in Mr. Abbott's death," William said truthfully. He preferred not to lie to a suspect; on the other hand he was adept enough at parsing language to offer a truth that still did not offer the whole truth. "I hope that assurance will elicit only complete honesty from you, so that you are not guilty of impeding a criminal investigation," he paused for effect, "intentionally or not." He pitched his voice deliberately into a lower register.

"I have no idea what you mean, Mr. Murdoch. It is as I told you. I came into the club, found poor Mr. Abbott and called the constabulary." Mr. Wilson's clipped words were delivered through lips that did not move.

"It's _Detective_ Murdoch," William reminded his suspect. "You heard the results of the inquest. What was not presented is that we have physical evidence that Mr. Abbott was killed in the lounge and left there face down, then turned over and dragged into the hallway sometime after death. The doors to the lounge were closed and locked. By your own admission only members and you and Mr. Abbott had keys to that room. Those are undisputed facts. So, either you or a member, or you _and_ a member moved Mr. Abbott's remains. That is what the evidence supports. The question is whether or not you or they can be implicated in his death, unless you can convince me otherwise."

Outside the room, Thomas held his breath. This was not the kind of questioning he was used to seeing, but he thought it was bloody good.

Mr. Wilson was silent. William noticed a tic beating under the man's right eye.

He had indeed been truthful. There _was_ no evidence that Mr. Wilson harmed the night-porter, and if there had been a conspiracy amongst the members of the club with sufficient motive to rid themselves of Mr. Abbott this was, in William's opinion, going down as the clumsiest assassination in history. He knew Inspector Brackenreid was watching him, and despite promising not to do anything without consulting with him first, William's instinct was contrary to believing Mr. Wilson killed his friend, and frankly, he no longer believed the death had anything to do with the club or its members.

William straightened up and took in a breath, praying he was right. "Mr. Wilson. It is a little known axiom that you may or may not have heard of, but attempts to obfuscate a crime are often more trouble than the original offense. Here is what I think happened…."

William set up a hypnotic rhythm with his voice. He'd seen a cross examination in court once before where the crown prosecutor built his questions one upon each other in a most compelling way, so attempted to copy that.

…"You did more than find him and call the constabulary. You found him in the lounge. You or you and someone else turned him over and dragged him into the hall and closed that door behind to protect the club and its members, but I also wonder if it was to protect him? Perhaps from being accused of being involved in the robbery, or of being somewhere or with someone he should not have been? You also made sure the members who stayed overnight were diverted from stumbling over the body, to protect them as well from the shock of a corpse first thing in the morning…but also to protect Mr. Abbott from the indignity, did you not?" William slid a photograph of the dead face across the table. "Mr. Wilson, Ross Abbott was your friend. He deserves better than this." William waited expectantly, seeing the tiny cracks in Mr. Wilson's façade widen.

"Mr. Wilson, what happened?" William delivered this in an almost whisper.

Once he began, Mr. Wilson offered the simple truth: he found the night-porter, dead, thinking it was a heart attack that took him, since Mr. Abbott had complained of chest pains recently. He panicked at the idea Mr. Abbott would be found in the member's lounge, blamed somehow for being where he did not belong or spoiling the ambiance of the lounge for members by having had the poor taste in dying there, so he dragged him into the hallway and relocked the door, then called the constabulary. It was only after he'd done so he'd noticed any evidence of a robbery, having been blind to it in all the upset. Then he'd panicked even further, thinking Mr. Abbott was somehow involved. _"Those keys, you know. Mr. Abbott must have let his killer in…"_

X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0

Thomas offered a small amount of praise to his acting detective. It was too bad there were no spirits to toast the occasion, but that was also premature—there was no confession, no conviction yet. "So far so good, Murdoch. We just eliminated a suspect for murder, but do we charge him with tampering with a corpse and obstruction?" Thomas was only half joking about that. The butler lied and interfered with the investigation, costing unnecessary money and manpower.

"I hope not, sir. That would bring unwanted attention again onto the Toronto Club, would it not?" William stood at attention with effort as he was eager to get the next set of questions underway. While he'd been wrapping up with Mr. Wilson, he'd had an epiphany about those keys to the Toronto Club. The constables' report was in his pocket and the next man to interview was about to arrive at any minute.

"So what is your theory of the crime? You have eliminated club members then have you? And an unfortunate consequence of a robbery. Who and what does that leave us with?"

"If I may, sir?" William went to get Constables Hodge, and asked him to report.

"Inspector, here's what we have." Hodge started with a summary of what they found out, to whit: Chester Abbott's alibi fell apart. He was not at a dicing game, in fact he owed a great deal in gambling debts.

William explained. "Sir, I believe Chester went to visit his brother and beg money, or worse for something from the club to sell, maybe even tried to steal something from the premises because he was in desperate straits. Ross Abbott might have let his brother in, but he would never have agreed to steal from his employer. Ross possibly caught Chester in the lounge filching alcohol. They struggled and Chester struck Ross either in the heat of the moment or because he did not want to be caught. I don't know if Ross Abbott died right away or a few minutes later, but I believe Chester Abbott rummaged in the club, took a few things to make it look like a break-in and let himself out of the front door. He'd have known about some of the robberies, the little bit of information in the papers, so he tried to copy that."

"I thought you needed a key for all those doors?" Thomas followed the logic.

"Yes, sir, you do. To get _in_ to the front door or service door. And one needs to use the key to lock behind oneself at the back door. But the _front_ door has a self-closing and locking mechanism when someone is exiting—I noticed that feature when the coroner took Mr. Abbott's body away," William filled in the last detail.

Thomas thought it through, crossed his arms over his chest and nodded. This would not have been how he'd have managed the case, but perhaps it could be 'All's well that ends well.' He turned to his men and gave a grin. "Right, then. I take it Constable Blake has been keeping our suspect occupied?" When both men nodded, he slapped his hands down on his thighs. "Well, get to it. Oh, and Murdoch? A confession would do nicely…"

X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0

 **Saturday April 19** **th** **1890**

 _"Voilà, Monsieur Murdoch. Maintenant s'il vous plaît. Vous pouvez regarder."_ He turned to see the effect of his new suit in a full length mirror in good light.

William's usual humbleness was momentarily in full retreat.

It was astounding, really, how something so simple made such an impact. He thought he looked taller, more mature, full of authority and energy inside his bright white collar and dark cloth suit…just for a moment he caught a flash in the mirror of how he could have looked if he had taken holy orders, or a remembrance of Father Keegan in his cassock … All because this clothing and the style fit him so perfectly.

He patted the pockets again…All his little accouterments were carefully, and more to the point, _invisibly_ , nestled about his person, and his jacket skimmed his collarless waistcoat with a fluid movement, showing just the right amount of shirt cuff and flashing the only legacy he had from his aunt—a pair of cufflinks. _"Merci, Monsieur Henri, merci beaucoup!"_

The two men chattered in French, M. Henri very happy he had someone with whom to speak his mother tongue. William thought the suit was worth every bank note he was about to surrender to the proprietor and expressed thanks again, having examined and appreciated every line and stitch in the garment. M. Henri was a genius and William told him so, presenting the tailor with a gift he'd made for him of a retractable cloth measuring tape inside of a small wooden disc. He demonstrated how it was used, much to the delight of the recipient.

"Non! Merci, Monsieur Murdoch. C'est merveilleux… "

William fussed with the rich green, subtly patterned silk tie. Earlier in the week, He had gotten a confession from Chester Abbott about how he tussled with his brother over a bottle of liquor, resulting in the end of the bottle striking Ross Abbott square in the chest above his heart. William was also credited with accurately predicting where the proposed youth gang was going to strike next, allowing officers to catch the whole lot of them and break open a large-scale black-market syndicate.

 _But…The suit._

This was the crowning moment of the whole week. For his troubles, Inspector Brackenreid gave William an invitation to dine with him and his wife at their home Sunday evening. Since he had limited experience with social invitations and was concerned about how to make a good impression, that made picking up the suit today a priority. M. Henri graciously agreed to keep the shop open past six thirty.

William spent several hours during the week trying to choose what to do about a hat. No gentleman, indeed no male over the age of about twelve, went anywhere without being covered by a hat, which William had learned (in excruciating detail) was a signal of rank and position to the world. A visual creature, he had his final selections in a box at his feet (after securing a guarantee from the haberdasher's he could return either one for a full refund) having been unable to decide without seeing the ensemble as a whole.

He opened the box and removed a new felt bowler, putting it on his head and straightening the brim. This was familiar, a hat like the inspector wore and many of his fellows in the constabulary. It was an egalitarian signifier, something of which William approved and by fitting in, it might make being accepted easier. He also figured it might be a good idea to adopt what Mr. Reda said about dressing for the position to which he aspired, or the sideways comment Inspector Brackenreid let out about needing to 'ape your betters.' This was a conventional head covering.

M. Henri stood aside, hands folded behind him, offering no comment.

William took the bowler off, placed it back in tissue paper and brought out the next one. He stood and settled the next hat, levelling the brim and taking in the overall impression. This hat sat perfectly on his brow, and because of the high crown it added at least an inch or two to his perceived height.

" _Formidable! Ce chapeau est parfait. C'est pour vous, Monsieur Murdoch."_ M. Henri stated plainly.

William agreed. This inky black formal felt hat with a gross-grained ribbon and hatband, was thoroughly modern and, as William learned, was supposed to be an intermediate option between a common man's hat and an upper class man's silk topper, or at least that is what his research indicated. _"_ _On l'appelait un homburg, popularisé par le Prince de Galles. Je pense que ça va faire…"_

M. Henri answered back in English. "It will do quite well, sir and no prince could wear it better, Mr. Murdoch. It is distinctive, perhaps something you will be known for. "

"Thank you again, Monsieur Henri. My hope is to be known for my work," he said out loud. _But I do like the hat_ , he thought to himself. As a final touch, he fixed his battered detective shield on his vest over his heart, looked at it for a split second, then covered it again with his jacket. His original suit, plus the second pair of trousers, and three more shirts would be sent over to Mrs. Kitchen's later tonight with a delivery lad. The unwanted bowler would also be returned for a full refund, the money for which would become a down payment on a proper wool coat.

William paid the bill and tipped his brim, emerging a moment later onto the street clad in his new outfit. The evening was mild with the day's warmth still radiating from the stones of the street and buildings. He strode down Wellington towards where his bicycle was stabled, passing two ladies arm in arm on the sidewalk. He made sure to allow them inside passage and grasped the brim of his hat in polite acknowledgement. One of the woman, eyes demurely looking down at the ground, brought her gaze up, and up and up until her eyes met his, then her face flooded with redness at being so bold.

William was uncomfortable under her scrutiny as well, along with some _other_ feeling he was not used to… As he passed he heard the two women giggle and whisper to each other, wondering what that was all about. He shook it off gave a wry smile, got on his wheel and set off for home. On the way he considered topics upon which he could offer interesting conversation Sunday evening. _Perhaps Francis Galton's 1888 Royal Institution paper on fingermarks…_

 _ **-END-**_

 _ **X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X0X00X**_

 _ **One-eight-hundred-how's-my-writing? Please review if you like it or hate it—Inquiring minds want to know.**_

 _ **AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you again to "Dutch" for story help and I'dBeDelighted (and Rebecca) for editing suggestions in my quest to get better at this writing thing. Anything better is to their credit, errors are my bad.**_

 _ **This "Origins" story is a bit of a mash-up from the books and the TV show—I am obsessed with William's suits and that hat (can you tell?) and after promising myself I would not make any more comments about the overly boxy cut of the most recent iteration of William's wardrobe (supposedly because of how hot and restrictive the suits are in the un-air-conditioned studio and the who-says-there-is-no-global-warming temperatures here-abouts) or YB's waistline (he is back to the same weight and size he was 10 years ago!) I just HAD to take a go at explaining the choices. Thank you Mr. Reda for making such wonderful clothing for the actors—they do 'make the man' for William Murdoch!**_

 _ **As usual-the internet is a wonderful thing. There was indeed a publication about men's etiquette and clothing for William to have studied, the Prince of Wales popularized the homburg, and the (outside at least) of the Toronto Club on Wellington in 1890 is as I described-look it up. The membership and interior are of my own invention.**_


End file.
